What Would Happen?
by TinyCitrusLegs
Summary: What would happen if they found out? What would happen if the color ran out? Would everything be better then? You can't wait for the day when everything is better. {Rated M just to be safe}


_What would happen?_

You've been crying too much, and you hate it every time. The way your tears coat your face always makes you sick, more so because your stomach is already swirling. You have to be careful, hold yourself still, you don't want to empty out the contents of your stomach all over the floor.

_What would happen..._

You hate this whole ordeal, you hate what has happened. You like to think that everything that has happened it just some weird dream. Maybe you're hallucinating? You like to think that you are... that means you wouldn't have to really deal with it. Even so, the simple question begs your mind.

_Why? Why did it have to turn out like this? Why were you cursed? At this point... what would happen..._

Please, could this all just stop? You clutch your skull and grip it tightly, shaking your head as more tears begin to cascade down your cheeks, and they're even dribbling down onto the floor at this point. Stop this. Standing here and crying is not at all helping you, you actually have to do something.

_If they found out._

**_You bring the blade down your forearm, hissing from the stinging pain yet finding a sigh hiding deep in your chest. At this point, you know you're just re-opening old scars, but you are beyond caring at this point._**

**_The candy red substance drips out, sliding down your arm like syrup, and, for a moment, you are compelled to lick it away. You do manage to stop yourself, though, because that is actually really fucking disgusting, and besides, it probably tastes horrible..._**

**_Especially since it's red._**

**_There's a reason why you always wear sweaters, so that no one else would see the scars. You don't want them to see those ugly marks, not because they'd care, but because they'd ask too many questions, and if you gave them the truth, they'd think you horrible._**

**_Yeah... you are horrible._**

**_What if they found out... that I'm a mutant..._**

Mutant...

You now hate that word.

It all smells vile, the blood, the cut flesh, it is so disgusting.

And sad.

You're reminded that you should do something, now, but you are caught up in your thoughts... and...

_Would they hate me? Would they run me out? Would they beat me first until I am at the brink of death? Surely, they would treat me like the worthless scum I am..._

**_You've cut so much... your blood nearly has no color at all. It spills with the consistency of near water, looking like that of what the humans refer to as fruit punch, it looks just good enough to drink._**

**_Your mind is foggy, your vision is fuzzy, and you feel weird. Your heart is thudding quite dull, and it would seem to be at a dangerously low pace, but you are used to it. All you need is a quick nap, and you'll be just fine..._**

**_Like always._**

**_So, you close your eyes and smile slightly. This feeling is always calming. In this state of mind, you like to think that, someday, the color coursing through your veins will run out, and it will be a glorious day... you won't be a mutant any longer..._**

**_You can't wait for that day._**

_What would happen... when the color ran out? Would I feel better about myself, would I be able to love myself? Would everything be alright then?_

That's where it all ends. The writing stops there. Your hands are shaking, and not too much time passes before you grip the journal tightly and throw it as hard as you can across the room. You don't want to see the words, you don't want to see the blood, but both seem to be etched in your mind.

There's red everywhere. It's hard to see through the tears, but you know exactly where he is. You approach him, and you expect to hear a grumbled complaint 'what the hell are you doing here, dickhead?', but, of course, it doesn't some.

You collapsed onto your knees, and you pull his lifeless body into your arms, not giving a damn about all the red blood that is coating your shirt. Your yellow tears are coming again, slipping down to coat your good friend's face in gold. The cuts are still fresh on his arms, it wasn't too long ago. You could have helped him, you could have been there for him, you could have told him he was wrong, that no one would hate him for something so simple as blood color...

You could have done something...

Sometimes, you wonder, what would have happened if you did do something, if you helped him.

_What would happen?_


End file.
